


Wrong Kind of Guy

by brodeurbunny30



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Consent Issues, Drinking, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodeurbunny30/pseuds/brodeurbunny30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean's been trying to get Marty down to his level, and it's wrong, but he's totally a wrong kind of guy. Set during the 2008 playoffs. Sean's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Kind of Guy

**Author's Note:**

> For slowascent. This was the pairing that I knew the best out of your requests :) Sean and Marty are kinda screwed up around each other, but I hope you enjoy the piece in the spirit that it's given. :) This turned out a little angrier than I imagined, but they do have some history together. Happy Holidays my dear, and I hope your New Year is full of great things! <3 bbunny

April 13th, 2008, Playoffs. Rangers lead series 2-1

I fucked with his head. I fucked with him so good. Shit was worth the two minutes in the box for ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’. 

That look on his face, fucking priceless.

I love taking him down.

That ego, that success…that fucking pride.

He’s just like me, he won’t admit it though. 

But I’ll get him down to my level.

Watch me.

 

***

 

April 18th, 2008, Playoffs. Rangers win series 4-1

Dickwad didn’t want to shake my hand, but I don’t care.

We won, end of story.

Time for fucking glory.

His actions only bring him closer to my ‘level’.

I would’ve rather seen him snap his twig over his net or something, but I’ll take the classic ‘I’m too fucking good to shake your hand in the lineup’ move.

Until next year, Marty.

I’ll be looking for you.

 

***

 

April 19th, 2008, One week until Round 2 match up. Celebration at Warren 77, Manhattan

 

It’s late but I’m having the best time of my life.

My restaurant is bumping so hard, it’s great. Some of the boys are here, and a *ton* of girls. 

Fuck, it’s so awesome to be me.

The media is here too, I can tell by counting the VIP passes glued to sweaty tits covered in glitter. 

The series win feel so fucking great right now, and I know I’m going to be so drunk off my ass tonight but I don’t care. Gimme the bag skate or whatever, I don’t care. I’m soaking this shit up, and if cute waitresses and buff bartenders want to help me celebrate, then let’s let it fucking be.

Time for another round of shots.

***

I don’t know what time it is, and I’m in one of the VIP rooms with so many hot chicks draped all over my seat. They’re half naked and the only servers are topless and there’s a private bartender and I think he’s suggesting I suck his cock tonight by the way he’s fucking me with his eyes. Oh god, I love it. I’m having such a great time. 

So great.

Then shit just gets real.

Maybe I passed out briefly or something, but the girls and the servers are gone. This is of course unfortunate cause I’m draped all over the sofa with my fucking dick hard as a rock. I know I look good. I should be on the cover of a men’s’ mag *again* cause I’m working the suit like an Italian playboy.

My tie is undone, shirt unbuttoned so that my six pack is saying hello to the world and my wicked hard-on is *oh so* visible beneath the perfectly tailored pants. I make this shit look hot, but there is no one around. My head is spinning a bit, but nothing I can’t handle. The number one issue is why the fuck the party came to such an abrupt halt, especially since the awesome tunes are still thumping over the speakers.

Then he appeared. I’ll fucking kill whoever let him in, but who cares now, he’s here.

“Having a good time?” I can’t believe this douche even made it past security into a private gala event.

Marty Brodeur is dressed like a king, I have to admit despite my urge to vomit. I know it’s the fashionista and alcohol in me talking, but he looks damned sharp. Black suit, black shirt, top buttons undone so that little spring of reddish chest hair is visible. But those are just details that I need to ignore right now, because Martin *FUCKING* Brodeur is crashing my private party at *MY* restaurant. 

“How the fuck did you get in here?” I’m angry now, reducing the effects of my hard-on of a few minutes ago. My head is still hazy but the rage is starting to clear that.

“Turns out your security guys are big fans, Sean.”

I don’t think I could manage a better death glare than the one I’m using right now. This is my night, bitch. Wait, and did he just have the nerve to call me by my first name? Like we’re fucking friends or something? Fucksakes, every night seems to be Marty Brodeur night, doesn’t he understand that there are other people on this planet besides himself? We just eliminated the Devils. You’re fucking done, and I’m celebrating and waiting for the next series. 

Bitch should be home crying.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” It was the right question to ask since this was a private party, but weird shit does happen, and all my bartenders have a ‘Don’t ask, Don’t tell’ policy, and with me, they’ve seen some seriously weird shit. So having a standoff between two NHL superstars happen right under their nose is actually rather low-key, and I knew whatever comes of it, they’d keep their pledge of silence.

So despite my obvious disgust, Marty pushes my legs over the sofa’s edge and finds himself space enough to sit next to me. The strength of his body heat so near is considerable, and adds to the fuzzy effects of the alcohol humming through my veins.

“I think it’s cute that your bouncers had posters of me in their rooms growing up. Did you know that? and they don’t even make posters of you…”

“The fact that they had posters of you when they were growing up only means that you‘re *that* old, dick.”

Marty leaned disturbing close just then, “No, it’s because I’m great.”

 

I pulled my right fist out and tried to swing at him, but he caught my fist in his hand before I could get close. His strength was surprising.

His look was patronizing and condescending, “And you’re not.”

We battled, right and there, this stupid alpha male thing to see who was stronger but every time I tried to push a little harder, his catching hand just kept pushing back with just as much strength.

Stalemate, I guess. 

That short pause as I tried to think of my next move was all he needed, apparently. 

Our hands were down and his other was around the back of my neck in a flash, and his lips, those cock-sucking lips were on mine in a millisecond. I tried to pull back, get the fuck out of there…but the hand on the back of my neck was so strong. I know it would leave marks.

And he kissed, forceful, strong, angry, vengeful and surprisingly hot.

I’m not going to admit that to myself in the morning, but right now, with the alcohol, the music, the leftover glitter on my chest from the tit-rubs I got from the media girls, it actually felt kinda good… and bad and very _wrong_.

And anyone who knows me, knows I’m a _wrong_ kind of guy. And getting Marty on the same demented level that I’m on, well…it’s kind of exhilarating.

“Stop trying to think, Sean, it’s not your strong suit.” I was left looking like a fish gasping for air as he broke the kiss to insult me. He’s such a fucking dick, but why am I more angry at the loss of contact rather than the insult?

Cause the asshole’s right, I’m not good at thinking. I’m good at talking…and doing. 

Very good at doing.

I should have took that weird insulting moment to get out of this fucked up situation, what with Marty fucking Brodeur kissing me with his death-grip on the back of my neck, (which by the way, is kind of hot) but I didn’t. I suddenly just needed to see where this was going.

Again, would not even admit that to myself in the morning.

It happened fast, shirt tails ripped from my waist band, belt unbuckled and tossed onto the floor helplessly, and I have to remind myself that it’s Prada and it shouldn’t be on the floor but whatever…

Nimble fingers grip my hard cock and I think I just bit my lip so hard that it broke the skin. I lick at the wound as I catch my breath in between pulls on my cock, yep, totally made my lip bleed.

“Marty….what the fuck?” I shouldn’t have asked, drunk or sober, but this is too weird and random for my brain to not ask.

“It’s easier if you don’t speak.” That’s when I suddenly found I was sans pants (and briefly praying that the designer trousers were safe) and being flipped over onto my knees on the sofa.

“You didn’t notice the chemistry when you chose me to be victim of your latest and greatest idea to annoy league goaltenders?”

I swore when his spit slicked fingers found my hole and started prepping me in a very decisive, almost routine way. How many guys has he fucked this way?

Wait… latest and greatest idea? Oh yeah...the stick thing. 

“Fuck you, it worked. You were so off your game the rest of the series. Took you down a fucking peg, didn’t I? Score one for the blue shirts, don’t you say?”

The finger pressing my prostate like a fucking Staples Easy button was the response, and I may have moaned like a five dollar whore in heat.

“Fuck me…”

Marty slapped my ass. “Planning on it.” With those determined words he shoved his dick into my ass and gripped my hips hard, hard enough to bruise and pumped until he was balls deep. I was this close to passing out.

I should have been insulted (actually, I was…) or at least more pro-active in the responding department but much of what I was trying to say came out as groans and encouraging expletives .

Never fucking mind the fact that I was half-naked, on my knees, in a VIP room of my own fucking restaurant, with none other than my divisional nemesis, more or less my sworn fucking enemy.

If the media bitches only knew what was going on.

“Stop thinking, Sean.”

His francophone tinted words only made me hotter. I gripped the sofa leather tighter and bucked with every thrust of his meaty cock deep in my ass. It shouldn’t feel so good, but Marty pushed the anger and pleasure buttons in me so well that the Chem lab in my brain stirred them together in a seemingly crazy experiment meant to confuse the shit out of me for the foreseeable future.

Funny how that dick was right, and I totally had to stop thinking, cause it was using up precious brain power that I needed instead to focus on the present, where Marty was grunting and moaning and swearing in French and thrusting into me like he wanted to be certain that I’d walk funny tomorrow.

Fuck me, he was probably right. But I didn’t care, not right now anyways.

I was panting by this point, and I can feel the tell-tale shudders running through Marty’s torso. He’s so close to coming and so am I. I try reaching for my now leaking cock, but Marty swats away my hand and pinches my ass in retaliation. I swear again, and he rucks up my shirt and jacket to expose my back. My eyes seemingly roll into the back of my head as he contorts himself to lick the exposed skin. I shudder feel myself swelling to capacity.

“Marty…please…” I sound pathetic, I know I do, but my balls can’t get any bluer. It’s hot, it’s sexy, and I’m on fucking Cloud 9, but goddamn, I’m at the end of my rope here.

“PLEASE!”

And Marty pull his cock out with a wet pop. I wince at the loss of contact and I listen as he fists his swollen dick to completion and blows his load onto the exposed skin of my back, and inevitably over the fine fibers of one of my favorite suit jackets.

The sofa shifts and creaks as Marty straightens and stands, fixing his clothes to their earlier perfection.

I glare and take inventory of the situation. His come is hot and sticky against the skin of my back, and my dick is one pull away from a mind blowing orgasm, and he is walking away like nothing happened.

“Well, thanks for that. Sorry about your jacket though,” He dug into his inner jacket pocket and dug out a fifty and tossed it onto the sofa. “Should cover the dry-cleaning bill.”

I tried to respond, but he interrupted.

“Don’t get up, I had a good time. Good luck in the next series, eh?”

I watched as he walked away and thought about what had just happened. I don’t think there was any doubt anymore that I had gotten *the* Marty Brodeur down to my own sordid level.

And it was _wrong_.

But then again, I was a _wrong_ kind of guy.

 

***

 

May 4th, 2008, Playoffs. Rangers lose series in OT to Pittsburgh.

Sean’s POV

 

Well, that’s done.

Not even sure why we fucking bothered since we pretty much got steam-rolled the whole goddamned series.

And we get eliminated in OT.

Not like I was fucking helpful anyways. 

One assist in five games.

My brain, heart and dick are all in agreement that I probably could’ve had my head in the game had it not been for that epic mind/ass fuck by Marty at the conclusion of the first round.

He’s such a bitch.

But I kind of like him.

Fuck him.

It’s the only thing I have to say about the whole fucked up situation as I gather my shit and wade my way through the last dregs of two-bit reporters who couldn’t get to me first.

I have nothing to say and I just want to get to the hotel and get drunk until I pass out. Then, in the morning, I’ll go shopping in downtown Pittsburgh (was there even good shopping there?) to alleviate the pain of the epic hangover that I’ll be guaranteed to have.

Sounds like a plan.

That is until I try to get through the back security exit and head towards the team bus. I’m stopped by a slightly pudgy cherub cheeked prick in a slick fitting navy Lacoste polo and jeans leaning on a pretty hot looking Porsche.

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

He pointed to the passenger door, “Take off those Paris Hilton sunglasses and I’ll tell you. Hop in, I‘m taking you to your hotel.”

I didn’t appreciate the reference, although Paris *did* know her designers, and I got in despite myself and the fact that the last bus was still waiting for me to drag my ass onto it.

Maybe it was the rage over the failure to close the deal against Pittsburgh, but I felt like I needed to work this out, no matter what the strange outcome. That or I’m a serious masochist for wanting to play out this ridiculous back-and-forth thing we have going on. It’s downright psychotic, but I did ask for it. I wanted to bring him down a notch, I wanted him to be fucking crazy.

And I got it.

I figured since the short ride from Arena to hotel was filled with stubborn, biting retorts about lingering animosity and our extreme difference in attention to personal grooming habits, I was without a doubt a masochist. That was becoming pretty fucking obvious.

The ride up the elevator to my room was even more painful than the car.

It was wrong, it was dirty, it was arousing to just fucking *want* the guy. (some small part of me still wanted to vomit over that thought, oddly) And he was close, so close that I could smell his cologne (nice, but average) and feel the overwhelming heat that accompanied that sturdy, barrel-chested frame of his.

If wanting to undress him in the elevator was wrong, the weird angry kissing that happened as soon as we were on the other side of the hotel room door was even worse.

It was this angry flurry of lips, teeth and tongue and I couldn’t fucking help myself. He was feeling the same level of shame and personal disgust as we tore at each other’s clothing until we were naked and fell against the plush bed.

Marty was all over me, pushing me into the soft mattress and forcing me to groan loudly as he plucked my now hard dick from my briefs and suckled me noisily into a frenzy.

“Marty!” I clutched at his short hair furiously, tugging and clutching where I could. Then I was digging my neatly-trimmed finger nails into his shoulders, hard enough to leave marks, to get his attention.

He looked dangerous just then as he looked up at me, my dick just inside his hot, hot mouth. His eyes were sparkling with mischief, just as mine usually do, and I knew that I had met my match. 

Marty ignored my plea, and continued to feverishly suck me off until I screamed and shot my hot, sticky load into his hungry mouth and he continued to lick and clean my cock until he had gotten every salty drop of come.

Such a dirty bastard.

But a hot one, I guess.

All I could do was slump against the mattress and watch as Marty got up and walked to the washroom.

He left the door open, and I could hear him jerking himself off. The sounds of him pulling and stroking himself was hot enough to get my cock ready for another round, but it didn’t stop the confusion, anger and general irritation of the whole situation from making my brain hurt.

Marty returned to the main room and began getting dressed. I watched as he straightened himself up and smoothed out his hair where I had enthusiastically tugged and pulled.

I sat up on my elbows, then thought better, jumping to my feet and fisting the fabric of Marty’s shirt front and slamming him with all my weight against the back of the hotel room door.

I practically spat at him, “You BASTARD! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”

Marty didn’t flinch, his eyes still as devious as before.

“I felt I owed you one, that’s all.”

I sputtered, “What?”

My hands still stayed fisted into his shirt and I pushed him back harder, realizing how crazy I was acting, but not caring one bit.

We were practically nose-to-nose, and his poker face was golden. Whatever bat-shit crazy scheme he had planned, it was kept hidden. For fucksakes, what was wrong with him? What was wrong with me? And why the fuck did I just let him suck me off? 

I hate this man…right?

This shit just keeps getting weirder, and I just keep digging it.

Marty gave me that look, and I knew he was ready with a piercing insult.

What he said instead was even more unsettling than a budding masochistic casual sex relationship with a sworn enemy.

“Face it Sean, this is just a taste of things to come. The game has officially just begun.”

He smiled, that big dorky, asinine smile of his and with surprising force he bucked me off him and I lost my grip as I stumbled back. The door was edge open enough for him to escape without making my stark naked appearance visible to the passersby in the hall.

I stood for a few minutes, just thinking, taking it all in.

This mind-fuck is still pretty raw yet, but I do feel more turned on than ever knowing that anything was going to be possible with that psychopath.

I had gotten him down to my level, got him to essentially fall from grace, and that was what I desperately wanted in the first place.

Instead it was wrong, very _wrong_.

But I’m a _wrong_ kind of guy.

And I love playing games.


End file.
